


when the white hart breaks his cover

by theisleisfullofnoises



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Consent is a thing, I tried to resist, I'm so sorry, Marriage Hunt, Multi, References to non-con (because A/B/O Universe), slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theisleisfullofnoises/pseuds/theisleisfullofnoises
Summary: Everyone knows that Senju Tobirama is one of the most dangerous alphas in Hi no Kuni.Everyone is wrong.Madara’s life was much simpler before he learned this.





	1. a stone better left unturned

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for dropping by! I wanted to try my hand at the A/B/O universe, and the idea of a Marriage Hunt, and this happened. Or is happening. Something like that.
> 
> This will be irregularly updated. I have no beta, because I am chronically shy and an erratic writer, but feedback to improve my writing is appreciated and I am definitely in the market for an editor. Save me. I don't want to die like men. (I don't know what that entails, though, so etiquette in the art of betas is also useful feedback)
> 
> I hope that you enjoy your stay!

For all that Uchiha Madara was a true shinobi, he liked to consider himself a man of honor. Being a clan head, as well as one of the most powerful shinobi of his generation, predicated a certain sense of principle and restraint.

 

In that moment, however, Madara would have happily murdered someone for a dry pair of socks.

 

Or shoes. Or underwear. Or—never mind. The point was, he wasn’t picky, just very, very wet.

 

His mission had gone well. One foiled kidnapping of a lord’s younger son, with the satisfying perk of exhilarating, if brief, fight with a particularly vicious shinobi, and Madara had finished his contract with a grateful and _extremely_ respectful customer and an early start on the way home. His next biggest concern had been debating the comfort versus obligatory paranoia of spending the night in an inn instead of a tree and, all in all, he was in what passed for him as a cheerful mood.

 

Izuna complained that these contracts were child’s play and beneath his skill level and, honestly, his brother wasn’t wrong. However, Madara jealously guarded his rare chances to stretch his legs and practice his more subtle ( _because he could do subtle, dammit_ ) abilities. He liked the simple missions, the ones that left him with something more than the ash of the battlefield and the ache in his chest that reminded him of childhood dreams and old promises.

 

Not to mention it was hard on enemy morale when any milk run mission might suddenly reveal _the_ Uchiha Madara as their adversary. Madara liked to think he only contributing to his duties as leader by dispensing a little extra gut-clenching terror to help keep their enemies wild-eyed and flinching.

 

What can he say, he’s a giver.

 

Madara’s good mission high had lasted him about half the way home, at which point he encountered an unseasonably late rainstorm and Madara realized that, among his nondescript and practical shinobi clothing, he had forgotten to pack rain-resistant gear.

 

Thus the contemplations of footwear-motivated murder.

 

Leaping between branches to avoid the growing mud, Madara shook his head to dislodge the hair plastered to his face and then stopped, grumbling. Coming to rest on the next slippery branch, he reached back and pulled the sodden mass over his shoulder.

 

Long hair was less a vanity than a blatant challenge among shinobi, one Madara was only too pleased to display, but the aggravation his caused when it got wet was enough to make him start contemplating the razor edge of his knives. The hassle of putting it up _after_ it got wet hardly any better.

 

He eyed his blades for a wistful moment, then sighed and started winding the mass tightly in his hands and already mourning the tangles he just _knew_ Izuna was going to laugh at him for once he got home.

 

Then he stilled, he cocking his head.

 

There are certain things that cannot be ignored; certain sensory inputs the human instinct would unerringly latch onto amid the mess of perception. The wail of an infant. The bitter scent of blood.

 

The sharp, quickly-stifled keen of an omega in distress.

 

The forest surrounding Madara was still a part of Hi no Kuni, but it was neutral territory according to the shinobi clans. Not claimed and therefore not protected, it meant that Madara was much less likely to encounter another shinobi as he passed. It also, however, meant that bandits and ronin took frequent advantage of the lack of patrols, and the civilians in the scattered villages were too poor to afford any contracts to remove them.

 

It was, altogether, a very bad place for a lone omega.

 

Madara considered the implications for a long moment, then stood, tossing his hair back over his shoulder and pointing his feet in the direction of sound. His eyes flashed red as he cut through the rainy haze.

 

It wasn’t any of his business. In fact, it could even be a trap. In a world like this, kinder impulses were rarely rewarded, but…

 

Well, what was the point of being one of the strongest shinobi in country if Madara wasn’t allowed run headfirst into danger now and then? Maybe he’d get lucky and he’d find a challenge that could truly match him.

 

And if he rescued a bystander in the course of it, well, there was always the chance of a reward, no?

 

So, with a mixture of boredom and curiosity (and certainly no heroism at all), Madara set off.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Sound had a strange way of carrying in a forest, especially one crawling along the base of a mountain, so he found himself traveling farther than expected. He checked his mental map and realized he had approached close to one of the mountain villages.

 

That gave him pause. He could do without the embarrassment of leaping down, expecting a fight, only to frighten some children playing in the woods. Or worse, _not-_ children playing in the woods. ‘Sorry, I heard you screaming and thought you were being murdered’ didn’t really do much to salvage anyone’s dignity. Don’t ask him how he knew. ( _Dammit, Izuna._ )

 

Madara had almost talked himself into turning back when something strange _rippled_ in his sensing range. A burst of chakra, unusually intense, flaring bright and then gone like the kicked the embers of a banked fire. Certainly abnormal in an area known for chakra-blind bandits and civilians.

 

In the rules of shinobi, one anomaly invited investigation. Two anomalies demanded it.

 

There was a thinning in the trees not too far ahead. Madara followed the direction of the flare until he reached a clearing.

 

There, he found out that he needn’t have worried. There were no children playing in these woods.

 

The bandits had made their camp in an idyllic location, braced against a towering outcrop of grey stone. It was a well-chosen spot, defensible, and with better equipment and organization than the usual rabble of opportunist thugs, it was a set-up that would give experienced shinobi pause.

 

Or, rather, it would have.

 

Madara dropped down into the stillness of the demolished camp, tipping his head thoughtfully as he took in the scattered bodies and crumbled canvas. Ignoring the bloody muck that immediately seeped into his sandals, he picked his way forward. Passing a body, he paused to look it over.

 

Sprawled on his side, the man’s deathly pallor stood out stark against the ground. A firm nudge rolled the body easily, still limp with early death, onto its back to reveal single neat slash across the throat. Perhaps half an hour old, by Madara’s guess. Recent, but not enough for immediate concern.

 

The brigand’s armor and weapons were maintained but worn, lacking embellishment, and the body was meanly muscled and scarred. Not just bandits, then, but rogue samurai, ruthless and well-trained. And this one had been cut down in a single blow by a skilled swordsman.

 

It might have been more reasonable to assume it was a group; as a clan head himself, Madara would have assigned no fewer than three experienced shinobi on an elimination mission like this, perhaps with a junior team in reserve. But even with the footprints washing away, the pattern of battle was too clear, too focused. One warrior, dancing death across a battlefield.

 

A fighter like that could prove interesting adversary.

 

Madara eyed the rest of the clearing, contemplative, but eventually he shook his head. He hadn’t sensed anyone else since entering the clearing. Chances were, whoever he had sensed before, they were long gone now. Which meant he should focus on finding source of the cry he had heard earlier.

 

Madara stepped carefully among the dead, past more torn earth, ruined tents, and even an upended chest of money. It appeared the bandits had been fresh from a raid, sacks of food and barrels of alcohol piled in the center of the camp, contents spilled and spoiling in the heavy rain.

 

That tugged on his attention briefly. Though the attacker had clearly been experienced and efficient, choosing to attack bare minutes after the bandits returned was a clear tactical flaw. The bandits were all still armed and armored, still running on the high of their success. If the attacker had waited even a handful of hours, half the camp would have been useless with drink. A strange oversight. Ultimately, an unimportant detail, however.

 

Madara eventually found what he was looking for in a cluster of tents tucked against the rocky outcropping, the least accessible part of the camp.

 

It was common for bands of this size to keep omegas for their own amusement, sometimes willing, usually not. Even in the smothering rain, these tents and their contents carried the lingering trace scents. _Definitely not willing,_ Madara observed, eying the staked-down shackles at the entrance of each tent.

 

Then he blinked, and eyed the shackles more closely.

 

The broken links were sheered clean open, cut with an edge that only a chakra-infused blade can provide.

 

Madara glanced back at the rest of the camp, tracking the carefully directed destruction that came to a stop right where he was standing, leaving the tents before him utterly untouched. Not even a splash of mud marred the canvas.

 

_A rescue?_

 

It was an answer to the question that had drawn him there in the first place, but one that only created more questions. The villagers nearby could never have afforded a contract of this size, even if they had pooled all their meager savings. Shinobi didn’t survive very long with a bleeding heart. Certain tree-brained idiots excepting.

 

So it could be some damn fool had ridden in like a noble lordling from a _monogatari_ to save a handful of destitute omegas, but last he checked, epic heroes were a bit thin on the ground.

 

A small breeze drifted through the clearing, chilling a little against his soaked clothes and trailing a new scent over the blood and rain. It was just the barest trace, but Madara didn’t need to be an Inuzuka to recognize that smell.

 

_Heat_.

 

Madara felt his spine stiffen.

 

A rogue shinobi would almost never agree to such trite charity work as a few kidnapped peasants— unless the rogue thought he could get a little extra reward out of it.

 

And the desperate cry that had brought Madara here in the first place had to have come after the fighting here had finished.

 

Madara certainly wasn’t any more inclined to charity work than other high-caliber shinobi, but the kind of alpha that could do this and then violate an abused omega in heat was clearly too dangerous to allow this close to Uchiha territory.

 

He could hardly let such a threat go unaddressed.

 

Turning, his eyes flared as red as his thoughts, and Madara followed the scent into the trees.

 

As he left the clearing, he reached out again with his chakra sense. The hum of life was rich and warm under the dripping canopy, but nothing stood out in the chaotic medley. The underdeveloped coils of a civilian omega could be lost in the chaos, especially one that was injured and unconscious. Of course, the same could be said for a skilled shinobi, scrambling their own presence hide from pursuers.

 

Not that doing so would be enough to evade Madara.

 

It was dim under the leaves and the haze of rain, but it hardly hindered the Sharingan. His gaze caught on splash of red on one of the trunks, distorted by the scattered downpour but still recognizable as a handprint outlined in blood.

 

He followed the blood, sparse drops steadily thickening. The trail changed to mere smears along the way, likely a result of a pause to bandage a wound. Disturbances along the path grew sloppier, however, as the underbrush and trees grew denser. More crushed shoots, overturned stones and leave litter. _Blood loss,_ Madara mused, _or carelessness?_ Perhaps the swordsman had become reckless with the scent of his prize. Omega heat pheromones were infamous for their effect on even the most disciplined warrior.

 

He tracked the trail to a hollow tree, where it ended. There, the scent of omega was still fresh, and a bloody shirt lay draped over a pile of discarded armor. He must have just missed them.

 

_Unless_ , he thought, grimly taking in the absolute silence around him, _he hadn’t missed them at all._

 

It made sense, after all. He was being careful, but many shinobi had an uncanny sense for being hunted.

 

Speaking of which…

 

_Shi-shush._

 

It was Madara’s sheer skill that saved his life in the next moment, lifting the kunai in his hands to block without even a moment to register the sound of shifting fabric.

 

The blade struck his guard with tooth-rattling strength and he snarled gutterally, blood heating at the challenge presented. The kunai crossed, re-directing the strike down to buy him a moment and bring him face to face with his attacker as his red eyes whirled. He was already baring his teeth at the familiar features when his nose caught up with the rest of him and his mind stalled.

 

_…What?_

 

Blinking owlishly, Madara stared.

 

With an expression of recognition and slowly dawning horror, Senju Tobirama stared back.

 

Between them, the rich scent of an omega in heat drifted gently on the breeze.

 


	2. why save your regrets for tomorrow when you can have them all today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was absolutely floor by the support showed to me after my rather skittish decision to post this. Kudos, big kudos, to this fandom and writing community. I found each of you powerfully inspiring.
> 
> That said, I'm just here to have a good time and hope you have one, too, so on with the story!
> 
> ([Now, with 100% more Beta! Thanks, goddcoward!)
> 
> Warnings: Some mild Non-Con, though not what you are probably thinking. Still, heads up.

As a testament to his infamous speed, it was the Senju who recovered first.

 

Tobirama threw himself backwards, pulling free from the tangle of blades as a single hand flashed through a series of seals that Madara recognized from Izuna’s ‘ _it’s-not-obsession-it’s-rivalry-Aniki_ ’ rants that seemed to follow every clash with the pale-haired man. 

 

Right. Madara _recognized those seals_.

 

“Oh shit _fuck_ —” The rest of Madara’s indignant howl was drowned out as he was caught full in the face by a  _dragon made of water_.

 

He might have to be a bit more sympathetic the next time Izuna complained about Asshole Senju And Their Overly-Flashy Jutsu.

 

Propelled by the column of water, Madara was thrown backwards, clipping a tree with one shoulder in a white hot flash of pain. His sputtered curse was lost in the torrent as he twisted in anticipation of the next collision, ready to push himself out of the onslaught and forward to counter with—

 

Except the onslaught suddenly sputtered to a stop, dropping him only a handful of yards away. He landed in a crouch, grunting as his shoulder - partially dislocated, _wonderful_ \- screamed its displeasure, and shook the sodden hair from his face to see the Senju wobble and stab his sword into the mossy ground to keep himself standing.

 

There was a visible tremor in younger man’s limbs as he pushed himself back upright. An ugly gash was visible through the torn fabric of his thin undershirt, no longer bleeding freely but looking one good blow away from reopening.

 

The Senju’s cheeks were flushed over a snarl of vicious resolve as he brought his hands up to start another series of seals. Water vapor was already swirling eddies around him, just like the heady scent pervading the air.

 

He looked vicious and _dangerous_. Not to mention…

 

Madara swallowed hard.

 

After careful consideration of the situation, he decided his best move in this case was obvious. Madara stood up.

 

And _ran the fuck away_.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

On the bright side, the rain had finally begun to ease up, making it less miserable and treacherous for Madara to travel through the treetops at inadvisably fast speeds while fleeing from an absolute cluster-fuck of a situation.

 

Optimism. Madara had it.

 

Unfortunately, it means Madara had fewer distractions to keep him from thinking about, well, a few immediate revelations he would prefer not to reflect on.

 

So. Apparently Hashirama’s little alpha brother…wasn’t. Which was. Unexpected.

 

It wasn’t that Madara was unfamiliar with the practice of concealing one’s dynamic. Shinobi had literally refined false presentation to an art. It was almost too easy; a dose of pheromones and suppressants and you were an entirely new person. Too many people failed to look beneath the surface, and dynamics held some of the most potent superficial assumptions in people’s minds.

 

That said, it _was_ surprising. Omegas were rarely put in vulnerable positions, even among shinobi. Maybe especially among shinobi. When bloodlines were power, omegas were their own currency, bought, traded - or stolen.

 

That certainly explained the pretense, at least. A Senju omega was rare enough - the clan was notoriously alpha-heavy, and guarded their omegas with the jealousy of a dragon’s hoard - but the brother of the current clan head and sole Mokuton user alive? Practically priceless.

 

And with that thought, Madara slammed to a halt on the next branch, breathing hard.

 

Madara’s brothers had all died young, all save for Izuna. The Uchiha often presented early, though, and Rikuto, middle child with a sweet smile and a predilection for mischief, had presented earlier than most. Too young to take care of himself and too vulnerable to trust with anyone but family, it had been Madara to sit up with him on those long nights. Madara, who pressed damp cloths to his feverish face and held him as he cried in the terrible confusion of a body too young to comprehend own impulses.

 

Madara, who had left on a mission not even a year later and come home to one more funeral with a too-small coffin. He had never dared to ask if the blade that had stolen his brother’s life was the would-be kidnapper’s carelessness or the last, desperate attempt to insure that their bloodline would be secure.

 

He was afraid he already knew the answer.

 

Madara knew the world he lived in was cruel, had mourned the fact along with the graves of his little brothers, aged too early and stolen too young. He had found a companion in his grief, that day by the river so long ago. A boy who had shared his sorrow and his dreams of a kinder world.

 

A boy whose last little brother he had just left behind him, alone and injured where anyone could stumble over him just like Madara had.

 

Tipping his head back, Madara watched the steam of his breath against the shadows of the canopy, felt the steady plink of water on his face as the pain of his relocated shoulder throbbed in time with his heart.

 

“Damn it,” Madara gritted out, and threw himself off the branch in the direction he’d come.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

Tobirama had moved by the time Madara got back to the hollowed tree to find the pile of armor and cloth missing, but this time Madara could track him by the chakra occasionally sparking and flaring in feverish intensity. Tobirama was either no longer bothering to or no longer able to hide his signature anymore.

 

Watching the Senju stagger against a tree, hand lifting to clutch his left side over his reclaimed armor, Madara got a pretty good idea on which it was.

 

The other man didn’t look surprised to see him this time, pinning him with a glare as soon as Madara crossed into his line of sight. It was a remarkably fierce expression, given the man was using the foliage to remain upright. “Uchiha,” he greeted, voice level despite his shortness of breath. “I thought you'd run off like a coward.”

 

Madara knew that some omegas were able to maintain speech through most if not all of their heat, but it still surprised him. The cool tone seemed at odds with the feral glint in Tobirama’s eyes. It was a reassuring sign, however.

 

The words, on the other hand… “I had decided, _graciously_ , to give you some privacy,” he emphasized, gritting his teeth with restraint, “but I thought better of it.”

 

Tobirama’s glare sharpened, but then he twitched, face spasming momentarily in discomfort. Releasing a slow, controlled breath, he said, “If you’re looking for a good time, I think it’s fair to tell you that I’ve torn a man’s throat out with my teeth before, and I’m not afraid to repeat the experience.”

 

Alright, on second thought, no, the calm voice was fucking terrifying.

 

“You t— I’m not here for that!” Madara denied quickly, open palms moving down and out in as non-threatening position a shinobi could make. He kept a careful eye on the Senju’s own hands as he did. One water dragon to the face had been enough, thanks very much. “I am definitely not interested in that! I just want to help.”

 

Tobirama’s expression didn’t shift. “How noble. Then you can helpfully do me the service of removing yourself.”

 

“Oh, for-  _No_. I'm not going away.”

 

When the Senju hands twitched in a way like looked like the start of a seal, Madara decided to try a different approach. “Look. You are filthy, bleeding, and wandering around the forest without shelter in the middle of a rainstorm,” he explained patiently. “I don’t care if you think you are as indestructible as your walking tree of a brother, Senju, you are going to get sick. Let me at least get you out of the rain.”

 

That got him a ragged scoff. “After which, you generously offer to warm me up with a friendly cuddle?” the Senju smiled acidly. “I will slit my own throat before I let you touch me, Uchiha.”

 

It only took a glance at the white-knuckled grip on his sword hilt to know the other man wasn’t bluffing.

 

Madara ran a hand through his tangled hair, resisting the urge to snarl at the Senju. Of course he didn’t trust him. Why should he? Madara was the lunatic here, yelling at a mortal enemy to let him save his life.

 

He could still just leave.

 

Tobirama twitched spasmodically again, and this time the sharp edge of a pained keen slipped out before he choked it down, muscles straining visibly in his neck.

 

It was a familiar sound.

 

_Don’t go, aniki. It hurts. I’m scared!_

 

Clenching his jaw, Madara hissed out a breath. “This is useless,” he muttered to himself. “He doesn’t even want your help.”

 

“You’re right. I don’t.”

 

“I wasn’t talking to you!” Madara snapped back. Under different circumstances, the pissy look of affront on the Senju’s face would have been hilarious.

 

As it was, Madara had a dilemma. “The problem is, you can’t reasonably trust me,” he states, returning to his musing, “and I can hardly trust you not to slide a knife between my ribs even if you accepted my help.”

 

Perhaps if it had been Hashirama, who he knew was foolish enough to keep his word. The Senju heir was no fool, however, and almost infamous for his ruthless cunning. Even Izuna was wary of the man’s calculating mind. He wouldn’t pass up an advantage for something as ephemeral as honor.

 

Tobirama settled himself more firmly against the nearest tree. It would have passed as elegant nonchalance, except Madara could see the light tremor in his hands. “Congratulations, you’ve cut straight to the heart of our situation,” he said, with more sarcasm than was strictly warranted. “You are not, in fact, a complete moron, despite evidence to the contrary.”

 

Hey. “ _That’s_ rich, considering I’m not the one bleeding out in the middle of nowhere because I had to play savior to a handful of hapless omega.”

 

Tobirama’s eyes went cold. “Perhaps you should wait a few minutes.”

 

Dammit. “That’s not what I—“ and then he processed what he’d just said and, more importantly, what the Senju hadn’t said, and paused. “Wait. You really did, didn’t you?”

 

The other Senju sighed harshly, shifting in his stance. “What nonsense are you blathering now, Uchiha?”

 

Madara didn’t bother to get offended, mind working on his realization. “You’re here, bleeding out in the woods in the middle of nowhere, because you couldn’t stand to wait out your heat before playing valiant hero to a bunch of damsels?” Tobirama went stiff, eyes sliding away from Madara for the first time.

 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Madara added, speculative. “I’m guessing you got to the village just after the raid, heard some sob story about kidnapped omegas. Probably were just on the cusp, then, but a fight like that would be enough to tip you over.” Madara tilted his head. “Of course, you would have known that.”

 

“Perhaps I did.” Tobirama said frigidly, cool gaze finding Madara’s face once more as he asked smoothly, “Are you disappointed, Uchiha? Finding out the Demon of the Senju has a heart after all?”

 

So it was true.

 

Dammit.

 

Sage save Madara from foolish Senju.

 

“As far as hearts go, it seems to be a bleeding one,” Madara noted dryly. Then he huffed out a humorless laugh, adding honestly, “You would make my life a lot easier, Senju, if you were more of a monster.”

 

He had considered his next move quickly, but carefully. He was already mad at himself for thinking of it, but…

 

It would be decisive, one way or another.

 

Madara shifted forward on his feet, stilling again when Tobirama jerked warily in response. “Don’t do anything drastic for a moment; I’m just going to move,” he explained curtly.

 

The Senju’s tension ratcheted upwards as Madara made a few careful steps forward, grip tightening and then easing dangerously on the hilt. In the end, however, there was no throat-cutting for anybody, so the Uchiha chalked it up to a win. 

 

He stopped a few yards away, just far enough to give him a heartbeat’s warning if the Senju decided to turn his blade to Madara’s neck after all.

 

“What are you doing?” came the flat query as Tobirama eyed him, clearly making the same calculations of the distance.

 

“Dealing with our problem,” Madara replied shortly, and then he sank to one knee.

 

He could feel the lingering rainwater chill through the fabric of his pants. There was a startled sound as Madara continued the motion, bending forward to place one palm on the ground and tipping his head down expose the vulnerable back of his neck.

 

“ _What are you doing?_ ” came again, hissed from overhead in a very different tone as Madara settled himself more firmly on the forest floor. “Have you lost your mind?”

 

Honestly, Madara wasn’t so sure he hadn’t.

 

“Senju Tobirama,” he stated clearly, like an invocation, even as the skin of his back crawled from exposure. “I offer you the trust of blood. Such as I would treat my kin, so shall you be treated, and shielded against all threats and violators until the time of your heat has passed.”

 

Because, hell, if Senju Tobirama got to be a moron, why not him?

 

Not that he thought that excuse would fly at home if this idea went sour.

 

In truth, Madara was all but shuddering as he knelt, forced to restrain his prickling tension as water landed softly over his unarmored back. It was a dangerous position. If the Senju attacked, he would have to move fast to defend himself.

 

It was the kind of opportunity an enemy couldn’t overlook. Madara wasn’t being vain when he considered the fact that Tobirama would never again have this high a certainty of success in killing him.

 

But, if Tobirama attacked, it would remove all complications from the situation. Madara had offered a truce; if Tobirama ignored it, he could retaliate and leave without a shred of guilt.

 

Only the attack didn’t come.

 

And, as silence fell under the trees, it started to seem maybe it wouldn’t be coming at all.

 

Shoulders easing a minuscule degree, Madara looked up.

 

For all that Madara had met the younger Senju as a child, they had both been seasoned shinobi by that point. In his mind’s eye, the younger mind had always looked much as he did in the present. Stern. Distant.

 

Right now, the Senju seemed neither of those things.

 

Tobirama looked lost.

 

The sharp, cold features of the White Demon eased, curving the unforgiving line of his mouth, smoothing the furrow in his brow until the light could catch in his unusual eyes. Shock made him seem younger, softer somehow. For the first time, Madara could see the resemblance between the elder and younger Senju brothers.

 

Strange, perhaps, to only notice that now.

 

Then Tobirama drew a ragged breath, however, and the moment passed, all trace of softness away slipping away with a scowl. A seemingly inevitable refusal settled onto the younger man’s face as his grip tightened on his sword.

 

Madara was surprised to feel a twinge of regret. For a brief instant, Madara had thought— Well. It didn’t matter what he had thought.

 

What mattered was the enemy before him. Madara tensed, muscles coiled to move as his hands twitched for his kunai. Fingers wrapped around cold steel.

 

It was at that moment Senju's eyes lost focus and he tipped sideways.

 

Madara got there just in time to keep the man from cracking his head open on a nearby stump. The damn fool had probably been locking his knees against the shakiness of blood loss. Madara swore as the Senju’s weight landed against his bruised shoulder, gasping with the pain. Then he nearly choked on the gasp, and started swearing more creatively.

 

Up this close, the scent of heat overpowered everything, even the blood soaked liberally on the man’s clothes. Madara spared a moment of gratitude that he’d already had the foresight to take a fresh suppressant on the run back. Even now, the suppressants in his system couldn’t entirely block out the way his skin flushed and the prickle of sweat across his skin as Tobirama curled a hand against the collar of his shirt to pull himself closer.

 

Madara had a moment to register the fact that he was now essentially embracing the other man before Tobirama utilized the leverage of the new position.

 

Madara caught the knife angled under his ribs with an almost exasperated growl. “Really, Senju? You couldn’t just let that one go?” He jerked the knife out of the other man’s grip. " _I’m trying to help you."_

 

Strangely, Tobirama didn’t actually seem very upset in his failed stabbing attempt. From within the circle of Madara’s arms, he slid his gaze up over the Uchiha’s face, careful to avoid eye contact. His eyes narrowed, and he hummed. “Just wanted to see if you actually lack self-preservation instincts as much as it seems.”

 

That, coming from the guy that attempted to knife the person who had literally just saved him from a concussion.

 

That sentiment did, however, sound distinctly less hostile than ‘I will slit my throat before you touch me, Uchiha’. Feeling a tentative rise of hope, Madara waited cautiously for another attempt to draw blood by knife or, recalling the Senju’s disturbing earlier comment, _teeth_.

 

Instead, the younger man focused a look of intense concentration in the vicinity of Madara’s chin. A thoughtful noise rumbled in Tobirama’s chest, and then he said, “You smell nice.”

 

And just like that, Madara realized he had a new problem.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

Madara had known, conceptually, that the rain would wash his scent blockers away, just like Tobirama’s. He had assumed, however, especially given the Senju’s willingness to try and knife him, that Tobirama wasn’t far enough along for it to make a difference.

 

Apparently, Madara had been wrong.

 

 _It’ll be fine_ , Madara had reassured himself, heaving the wounded Senju over his good shoulder and setting off toward the denser, rockier part of the forest. He would just have to get the pair of them out of the rain and then he could reapply the blockers. Same plan as before, and probably even easier since Tobirama had stopped actively trying to stab him. Madara had handled heat-drunk omegas before; he could handle this.

 

What Madara had failed to realize, however, was that as far as omegas went, Tobirama was less ‘detaching a desperate mewling kitten’ and more 'barehanded wrestling with an _actual fucking tiger’._

 

The realization came shortly after Madara had removed the Senju’s armor and shirt to cleanly access his injury.

 

“Stop that- and that- no, not- Fuck it, just let me- _Ow_!”

 

Having just been slammed face-first into the floor of the cave he’d squeezed them into, Madara wheezed. “I think I liked it better when you were trying to kill me.”

 

Perched on his back and just radiating feline smugness, Tobirama hummed. “ _I_ think this is much more fun.”

 

“ _This is not fun_ ,” Madara ground out, trying to leverage himself into a better position. “This will be even _less_ fun when you snap out of it and tell your brother to _murder me_.”

 

That received a sound like a discontented cat. “I wouldn’t ask Anija to kill you. I’d be sure to do it myself.”

 

How incredibly reassuring.

 

“And I don’t want to talk about Anija right now,” Tobirama added sulkily. A hand lifted, trailing down his spine with a warmth Madara could feel through his shirt.“…I’d rather talk about you.”

 

The weight on Madara’s back shifted, one hand dragging down to brace on his hip while other hand pushed into the mass of Madara’s hair, sensation sparking down his spine. It fisted abruptly, tugging his head to the side. Madara growled instinctively at the exposing position, even as his skin went tight and hot at the hitching breath against his neck.

 

Well. This wasn’t ideal.

 

“I’ve always watched the way you fought.” The words feathered across his damp skin, prickling the hairs at the base of his neck. Teeth pressed briefly against skin, just enough pressure to make Madara go tense, then pulling away. “You always move like you’re unstoppable, overwhelming your enemy with sheer power.” Mouth pressed behind Madara’s ear, Tobirama _purred_ , like was imparting a secret. _“I could stop you_. _”_

 

Madara suddenly found it a lot more difficult to breathe. Because of the weight pressing down on the middle of his back, of course. No other reason.

 

Gods help him.

 

Tobirama was still talking. “It’s not fair that Anija keeps you all to himself. I’m sure I could design something just to defeat you.”

 

“You could— what?” Madara choked out.

 

“Mm, you really do smell good,” Tobirama responded, unhearing. He nuzzled closer, chasing the scent. “Like smoke and metal and alph— _ah_.”

 

The Senju winced and drew back suddenly with a pained noise, hands lifting reflexively to press against the injury on his side.

 

Seizing the desperately needed opportunity, Madara twisted, knocking the other man off of him and throwing them into a roll, trying to pin him down without also worsening his injuries.

 

Tobirama proved he was a mean fucking bastard even when completely delirious, though, digging vicious fingers into Madara’s swollen shoulder until Madara cursed, faltering, and then demonstrating some frankly outrageous flexibility to roll himself back on top.

 

Settling himself solidly over the cradle of Madara’s hips, he had the gall to look entertained.

 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Madara groaned. “Let me up. I need to bandage that cut before it gets worse.”

 

“That sounds boring,” Tobirama said thoughtfully, hands reaching for the fastens of his own pants. “How about I sit on your cock instead?”

 

For a blank moment, Madara could only stare, mind blissfully refusing to register what he had just heard. 

 

Unfortunately, Tobirama used that moment to get the fastens undone and a hand slipping deftly under the cloth.

 

“Oh sweet Sage, _wait_ —“ Madara choked out, eyes drawing down helplessly.

 

The Senju did not wait, letting out a breathy “ah” as his back arched, hand twisting and vanishing further behind concealing fabric. He ground his hips down, eyes limpid and heavy-lidded as he leaned down, lips already parting to say—

 

 _Wham_.

 

Bonelessly, Tobirama collapsed on his chest.

 

With the clarity of thought that came with lying on a clammy stone floor under the heat-drunk omega he had just knocked unconscious for trying to have sex with him, Madara admitted that he probably could have handled that one better.

 

Sighing, Madara sat up stiffly and, gently, shifted the Senju onto the floor. Then, pulling out his emergency medical kit, he got to work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reintroducing Flailing Muppet Madara, with his guest star, Tequila Tobirama!

**Author's Note:**

> Me: *locking all doors and checking the rooms* Finally. I can just write a stupid little porn short...  
> Plot: *Sidling up, slurping on a smoothie* Sup  
> Me: ...  
> Me: How did you get in here?  
> Plot: You forgot to lock the bathroom window.
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired, of course, by my betters in the fandom.  
> Two works in particular were:  
> As the Sea Is Marvelous, by blackkat,  
> are we out of the woods yet, by senroh


End file.
